


To Call In Sick

by cecewho



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, Exhaustion, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Religious insults, Set before the musical, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecewho/pseuds/cecewho
Summary: "One month and four weeks since Roger had shut his lips shut for the last time. "(Set before the events of the show, one month after April's death.)WARNINGS for implicit VIOLENCE, RELIGIOUS SLURS, HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE, implicit references to mental illnesses like DEPRESSION.





	To Call In Sick

_Don’t breathe too deep,_

 

_A beep floods the bare room._

_An alarm set too late into the night, goes off too early in the morning. A gasp, followed by a groan, meets the incessant beeping in the poorly lit room. The thin covers move over a body too tired to switch the beeping off. A pale, freckled hand reaches out and pushes the black button. It blindly searches the bedside table looking for the thick framed glasses._

_Mark opens his eyes._

_Don’t think all day_

 

_It’s early in the morning, but he’s gotten used to it. The clock reads 5.30 AM, which means he has about 20 minutes to get ready before he has to head out in the freezing New York winter. His first shift starts at 6.30 AM, which means that he has just the time to cycle the 7 blocks that divide him from the luncheonette he works at._

 

_Mark starts rising from his bed. Every muscle and bone in his body protesting the shift of position. His breath is caught in his throat and he has to fight against the buzzing in his head while dark spots float in his field of vision._

 

_Dive into work_

 

_His shift at the cafe ends at 11.30 PM. He has a 45 minute long break, and at 12.15 he is back behind the counter. When he had first gotten the job he used the time to film, but his passion was quickly brought to an end after his first week and a half: he had been so worn out by his work that he had fallen into a deep slumber at the back of the cafe. Nobody told him anything so he just kept doing it: it wasn’t like he had any money to buy lunch with._

 

_Drive the other way_

 

_When he is finally done with serving coffee he couldn’t afford to people he didn’t care about, he hops back on his bike to go to his second job. He is a clerk at a pub halfway across the city. His shift starts at 6.30 PM and ends at 12.30 AM.Although his day job is somewhat bearable, working at the pub is something he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy: he had started considering his day at work a good one when he didn’t have to clean someone’s barf off the floor: otherwise he had gotten used to the constant abuse the rest of the staff reserved for him on a daily basis. They weren’t too far off, after all: he was a “broke-ass faggot kike”, and most of all, he was desperate enough to undergo their words and fists without a single complaint._

 

 

Mark exited his room. Light was lazily drowning the main room. The house was silent. But Mark had gotten used to silence. 

 

It had been one month and three week since his voice had become the only one resonating through the walls of the loft. 

One month and three weeks since Collins had left in order to work. 

One month and four weeks since Roger had shut his lips shut for the last time. 

The last sound Mark had heard him make were his sobs and shouts as they discovered April’s body. 

Not a sound since then. Not a single fucking sound had pierced through Roger’s self imposed barrier. 

 

He hadn’t cried at the funeral. He had stayed mute as the doctor gave them the results. He hadn’t complained the first time he took AZT. He didn’t say goodbye to Collins as he had left them. He didn’t oppose when Mark found himself a job because the money just wasn’t enough. 

 

He just sat there and stared. 

Sat there and stared for hours upon hours, holed up in his room. 

 

He barely slept, sometimes he ate and every once in a while he drank a glass of water.

Mark wasn’t even sure if Roger had noticed his new working hours, but maybe it was better that way. The old Rog would have never approved of him bending to the world of capitalism. 

He would have laughed at the mere thought of an occupation. 

“Who needs money when you can have this, Marky?”

When you can have what? What they currently had was an empty fridge, some old ruined clothes, covers that were just too thin to keep out a weak wind, HIV and too many damn bills to pay. Everything seemed too expensive: Roger’s meds were expensive, food was expensive, the repairs for his bike were expensive, Roger’s check-ups were expensive.

Loving Roger was expensive, but he didn’t care as long as Roger was fine. 

 

He grabbed a stale piece of bread and chewed on it slowly; his head had been bothering him lately, and he had started feeling weak and faint. There was really no point in worrying, it wasn’t like he could really do much about it: all the food they had, he left for Roger to munch on, all the hours of rest could use, were spent at work, all the medicines they had, he had decided to save up in case of an emergency. He was going to be fine, he wasn’t the one who had a possibly deadly virus roaming in his veins. 

 

Before leaving he checked on Roger. He was happy to see that he was sound asleep under the couple of covers Mark had put on his bed at the beginning of winter. Seeing Roger snoring soundly was relieving: more often than not, Mark would find him with dark bruises under his eyes as he stared into the wall unmoving, but he was finally getting some sleep at last. He grabbed the remains of the the previous night’s dinner (which looked to be simply picked at) and left a clear glass of water next to the all so familiar blue pill, that awaited, in stead of Mark, for Roger’s awakening.

 

Mark left with a piercing headache, a grumbling stomach, droopy eyes, a dozen of dark bruises scattered on his trembling body, and a smile on his face. Roger was resting: this was going to be a good day.

 

 

His day at the cafe was no different than usual. The same weary-eyed clients asked for the same cheap drinks. A couple of students sat in a booth in the corner and he couldn’t help but think about Collins; life had been a little lighter when he was still home with them, but it had gotten to the point where they desperately needed money and Collins, the ever apprehensive father, had been the sacrificial lamb. He remembered his friend’s warm eyes, a small backpack resting by his feet, as they had said their goodbyes. Roger was in his room, and Collins had asked Mark if he was going to be alright. Of course he was going to be alright! He wasn’t the one who was leaving, he wasn’t the sick one. When Mark had told him that, a sad smile answered him and two warm arms enveloped him in a cocoon. He missed Collins, he hoped that he was at least enjoying MIT, and that he was keeping some of the money for himself. 

He just hoped he was doing okay and that he was happy. What more was there to ask?

 

 

His break came around and his co-worker hurriedly asked him if everything was fine. 

 

“You look pale.”

“Always been, I’m offended you never noticed.”

 

“Do you even sleep anymore?”

“I was just about to go rest.”

“So you don’t sleep.”

“Of course I do!”

 

“Listen, you look like you could fall down any second now, just eat this and go home.”

“That’s your lunch, and I can’t just go home.”

“That’s _your_ lunch now, and yes you can, just say you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

 

He gave him a stern look. Mark brushed him off. He wasn’t sick, Roger was. And Roger needed medicines, which required money to be bought, which made it necessary for him to work.

 

The second he closed his eyes and rested his head, it was time for him to go back behind the counter. 

 

 

Three hours later he was back on his bike, with a headache worse than before thanks to two crying children and a white collar who had asked for a latte, “Not a fucking macchiato!”, and had decided that the best was to get the coffee that he had asked for was shouting and half throwing his boiling cup at Mark.

 

At 6.30 PM he crossed the entrance to the pub. It was half empty as usual: most of the clients started arriving right when he signed off. He put on his apron and went in the small storage room to start his chores. His evening job was menial to say the least: it didn’t get more interesting than restocking the shelfs, cleaning the floor and pointing the way to the bathroom to drunk strangers who could barely remember their own names. It was what most would define as “easy money”, but what Mark would better describe as a “soul sucking waste of time”. But, desperate times, called for desperate measures, and, with that in mind, Mark begun his shift.

 

After a couple of hours, he was asked to bring to the front a couple of bottles, as the vodka and gin upstairs had been emptied. His head was spinning from restocking: the continuous change of position from crunched down to get the products, to standing, was not helping his faintness. It seemed that the few steps, dividing him from the balcony were the final straw: everything started tilting and his world turned of an inviting black. 

 

A slap was the warm welcome he got to the living world. He was on the ground and he was wet and smelled of the spilled booze on the ground. One of his coworkers was holding him by his collar and shouting something. Everything was buzzing and spots were dancing in his vision. 

The second slap managed to bring sound back into his world.

 

“ - you can’t even fucking carry a couple of bottles, how are you so fuckin’ weak, uh fairy?”

“It’s not like you can pay back those bottles, right fag?”

“You’re just gonna become a whore, yeah? What else could you do to pay all those debts back. You’re probably one already, fucking disgusting.”

“Fucking kike is not even rich, what’s the point of your existence?”

“We’re gonna teach you a lesson about breaking stuff that doesn’t belong to you, you shithead!”

 

And just like that he couldn’t catch his breath anymore. 

Kicks, punches, shoves, spit and names assaulted him from every angle. 

There was no escape, no safe position, no nerve that didn’t feel the never ending pain.

He just closed his eyes and let it happen: he was too tired to fight back anyways.

 

When they were done with him, they unceremoniously threw him out of the backdoor. 

The cold pavement and his bike where the only ones who greeted him. 

He decided that nobody would mind if he just laid down for a bit.

 

A gasp, followed by a groan, filled the poorly lit hallway.

Mark woke up aching all over. 

His nose was bleeding, his head was spinning, but he decided to head back to the loft.

He had to make sure that Roger was alright and that he had taken his AZT.

 

Nobody stopped to help him. 

Many looked at him sideways and a few in fear.

He didn’t stop, he just carried on walking, ordering his feet to move, sure that if he stopped he would have passed out right there and then.

 

By some miracle, he found himself in front of their door. He retrieved his keys from his pocket with trembling, unstable, blue hands. He grabbed his bike with all the remaining strength he had and tried to bring it upstairs. Three steps later he had already given up and was clutching the hand rail like a lifeline. At this point it was the only thing keeping him upright.

 

Their front door was suddenly next to him and he threw his body against the handle to pry it open. 

 

Roger’s green eyes greeted him. The rockstar was standing right outside his room. It looked like he had just come out of the bathroom, and was making his way back to the bed. Mark was happy to see him up. As the director’s smile widened on his lips, so did the singer’s eyes in pure fear. 

 

Mark’s world came crashing down yet again that day, but as he plummeted to the ground he saw Roger’s mouth open.

 

_What was it about that night_

_Connection, in an isolating age_

_For once the shadows gave way to light_

_For once I didn't disengage_

 

 

 

He woke to light streaming directly into his face. 

His alarm clock was silent, but it looked like it was late in the morning. 

His body felt like lead and his head hurt like hell, but the piercing headache didn’t prevent him from hearing a voice from the other room. 

It was rough, embarrassed, and uncertain. 

 

“- yeah no, he won’t be coming today. He’s sick. Yeah, will do. Thank you for understanding. I’ll keep you updated. Thank you, bye.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the author's corner!  
> I really hope you enjoyed my story. I know it's not canonically mentioned Roger's reaction to April's death, and I wanted to explore the possibility of the famous singer staying silent for a period of time.   
> Another big focus of this story (as you may have noticed) is Mark; I wanted to show how he obsesses over things, to the point where he ignores his own health. This time he is obsessing over Roger, and the fact that he needs him to be alright, especially after April.  
> ALSO, the fact that Roger notices Mark's condition, is completely casual, his depression isn't magically gone, he just happened to be in front of the door.   
> This is all folks, if you have any questions ask away, or hit me up on tumblr @mylifeinshowtunes!  
> If you feel like it leave a kudo or a comment, they are greatly appreciated!   
> Thank you for reading,   
> Cece


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